by Theodore Roethke
This urge, this wrestle, resurrection of dry sticks,
Cut stems struggling to put down feet,
What saint strained so much,
Rose on such lopped limbs to a new life?
I can hear underground, that sucking and sobbing,
In my veins, in my bones, I feel it–
The small waters seeping upward,
The tight grains paring at last.
When sprouts break out,
Slippery as fish,
I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath wet.